


A Soldier's Lament

by Rhiw



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers Friendship, Grief is a quiet thing, Grief/Mourning, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 03:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11615061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiw/pseuds/Rhiw
Summary: This was Steve’s, only Steve’s, no matter how many times Clint kept his silent vigil. Maybe, the archer mused, he hoped that Steve did. That he realized he wasn't alone, that perhaps Clint's presence could bring some kind of - any kind of - comfort.





	A Soldier's Lament

**Author's Note:**

> Written while drunk. And sad. Did I even mention I was in the military?

The night air was slightly cool, reflecting the end of July in New York. The city spread out before Clint like a bejeweled carpet, lights twinkling brillantly. From his perch, tucked in a small enclave of the Avengers' Tower, the Hawkeye stared impassively over the city, one leg folded underneath himself while the other hung carelessly from the ledge. He was clad only in a light pair of sweats and a Boston t-shirt, the slight nip of the cold wind at such heights barely a thought. Clint’s wrist watch vibrated and he glanced down, muting the alarm as the neon numbers of _11:33pm_ blinked up at him. Clint had no idea why that time but without fail, every night –

As if on cue, he heard the slick slide of the glass door below him. Steve Rogers’ blond head appeared. Though he doubted it was necessary, Clint slid back further into the darkness of his hiding spot. The wind whipped around them, one fierce gust before the night fell silent again, as if in strange deference to the coming moment. Below him, Steve lit a cigarette. Another step in the strange ritual and Clint silently wondered why, the Captain never smoked it. The man crossed his arms, the orange glow of the lit butt illuminating his hand softly. Steve cleared his throat, the sound nearly silent but still audible. And then it started.

_“Lay me down, in the cold, cold ground._

_Where before, many more have gone._

_Lay me down, in the cold, cold ground._

_Where before, many more have gone.”_

Steve’s voice was hardly something to write home about, but there was something almost charming about the crackle to it, the uneven quality of an untrained voice.

_“When they come, I will stand my ground._

_Stand my ground, I will not be afraid._

_Thoughts of home take away my fear,_

_Sweat and blood hide my veil of tears.”_

In the dark of his seat, Clint closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone. Steve’s grief was a quiet thing, something that could be easily missed, but to Clint it was clear as day. As always, he felt like an intruder; the worst kind of voyeur. And yet here he was. Here was as he had been every night since he’d discovered this strange sacrament. He'd tried to stop, questioned his own motives, but without fail if he was in town, eleven thirty found him here. Waiting.

_“Once a year, say a prayer for me._

_Close your eyes, and remember me._

_Never more shall I see the sun,_

_For I fell, to a German’s gun.”_

Steve paused, took a deep breath before continuing and Clint’s hands tightened in his lap, resisting the urge to lean forward and try and grasp a glimpse of the soldier’s countenance. He wondered if Steve knew he was here; if the super soldier’s abilities extended so far that he could hear even the muted sound of Clint’s heart. It didn’t matter; even if he did they both knew that neither would ever speak of it. This was Steve’s, only Steve’s, no matter how many times Clint kept his silent vigil. Maybe, the archer mused, he hoped that Steve did. That he realized he wasn't alone, that perhaps Clint's presence could bring some kind of - any kind of - comfort.

_Lay me down, in the cold, cold ground._

_Where before, many more have gone._

_Lay me down, in the cold, cold ground._

_Where before, many more have gone._

_Where before, many more have gone._

The words died out, a silence so heavy falling that Clint felt like he could reach out and pull the very air. As the silence rang out, far more prevalent following the absence of that clear tenor, that balcony was as hollow as any graveyard. Steve moved forward silently, snuffing the cigarette out in an ash tray efficiently. There was the soft patter of bare feet on tile, the quiet slide of the balcony door shutting, and Clint let his eyes open again, and stared out over the city. He stood, hand brushing against the smooth stone of the tower walls. He paused before beginning his ascent to his own floor, eyes locked on the weakly smoking ash tray.

“Good night, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> I miss my friends. I'm sure Steve would too.


End file.
